


Algos

by Captain_Panda



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Canon Divergence - Post-Avengers (2012), Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Headaches & Migraines, Hurt Tony Stark, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Protective Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:21:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26074090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_Panda/pseuds/Captain_Panda
Summary: "Algosin Greek is a neuter noun literally meaning 'pain.'"Tony has a migraine. He also has a loving husband.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 23
Kudos: 131





	Algos

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, champions:
> 
> Trying on a new pair of shoes, an established relationship whump fic with no daring world-building. This fic comes from a very personal place. I felt there was an opportunity to capture the unique "inside" feeling of a migraine, so I finally wrote it. This story amounts to just one perspective, but I hope you find it intriguing.
> 
> Yours affectionately and always,  
> -Cap'n Panda

The darkness that lived inside him had a name.

It preferred not to be named—nor even spoken to. It preferred not to exist in his world at all, a many-dimensional creature trapped in his flat land, sweeping in and filling the spaces in his skull all wrong. It was too large to capture in his own plane of existence; it sprawled well beyond his limits of understanding, of containment, cracking outward with its sharp edges. 

Once the darkness arrived, there was no escaping its shadow, its influence; he could not return to his own unaltered reality until it retreated of its own accord. Yet he questioned it even as it arrived, in flickers, in little speckling lights, like an inverted lighthouse. _You came from somewhere_ , he thought, as it made itself at home inside his skull. _You have an origin. Where did you come from?_

The darkness offered no response. Of course it didn’t—there was no beast to talk to, no true monster to interrogate. Even the fleshy mortals he could ask about it were useless. No philistine could articulate the nature of the passing electrical storms that swept through his own inner universe, a place less understood than the _Moon_. The Moon was a dead rock, devoid of life; his brain was a rapturous organ, where symphonies and demons lived.

As a demon leapt to the piano, Tony shut his eyes against the ringing—ringing—ringing—ringing— _blast it, won’t someone pick up the phone?_ —ringing sound it created, waiting for the _danse macabre_ to be on its way.

But it never left _quickly_. Other demons hastened in to fill his head with noise; in concert, the rest of his world became quieter, blurrier, harder to read as he scanned it briefly. In exasperation and unable to concentrate, he put down his tools, then reclaimed them, refusing to let the demons run the show. _Damn you_ , he told them, focusing on his task at hand, even as a blistering percussive blow seemed to resonate across the left side of his skull. _Damn you, damn you_. 

The demons laughed at him and his exertions, the half-blind efforts of a man tinkering with his foolish machines, refusing to give in to their chaotic noise. 

Cracked down the middle with an unseen mallet, the left side of his head was beyond use, but the right was nearly normal. He consoled himself, _One half broken, one half full. I am an optimist_. It was no comfort at all as the demons’ efforts rose to a crescendo, and he thrust down his tools in fury. Ignoring their silent laughter, he staggered from his own worktable, one hand gripping the wounded, bloodless side of his head.

With every step, the world seemed less important, the demons more demanding, _Sit a moment, stay a moment, give a moment of your time_. He refused to cave to their demands, fetching a rag he used to clean his pristine machinery and moistening it with cold water. Clasping it to the noisier side of his broken, bloodless skull, he exhaled in noisy relief at the immediate deafening of the crowd. _Gotcha_.

They retorted with a symphonic _bang_ that made him grimace. Sliding into the nearest chair, he hunched forward, still gripping the soaked rag for support. The darkness, formerly a passing dread, had become the totality of his world, the all-consuming emotion, and he licked dry lips, wondering if it was cosmic punishment for being Tony Stark that had brought him to this chair, this moment of defeat.

He did not dwell in misery for long, though, aware that the demons would only gain courage if he failed to offer a strong retort. With a short breath, he pushed himself to his feet, marched stiffly to the cabinetry, and fished out a bottle. Still gripping the surely-loose side of his skull to its base, he cracked the bottle open, shook out more pills than was strictly recommended for such battles, and downed them, cupping both hands under the sink for icy support.

Gratified at his own swift action, he sank back into a comfortable chair, ordered in the quietest voice he could bring himself to speak, “Lights-ten,” and J.A.R.V.I.S. obligingly turned the room from day to night. The demons hushed, in silent interest. Savoring whatever triumph he could snatch from the jaws of defeat, Tony clasped the moist cloth to his forehead, shut his eyes, and waited for the storm to pass by.

Exhaustion made him nearly lose his sense of self altogether, a strategy that worked well against the demons, which depended on a conscious audience to entertain. But it was not one he could employ there: neck already aching from his unexpected lean-to, he sat up slowly, looking around the dark room, reacquainting himself with it. 

His head pulsed loudly, and he swallowed thickly at the over-loud reminder of the struggle that would not be silenced through stillness alone. Rising slowly, he lurched across the darkened room, guided by little blue lights in the floors and walls to his destination.

The hallway was staggeringly bright by comparison. The demons shrieked in wordless joy to see it, and he placed a hand on the wall in brief despair, entertained retreating to the darkness, _for now_. Then he thought belligerently, _I am no coward_ , and strode confidently into the light, ignoring purposefully the rowdy cheering and sneering of the little monsters causing such a ruckus in the first place, dismantling his sanity step-by-step.

He thought, _Food will serve me_. His belly felt wrong, and he knew it was the demons’ and their strange appetites, but he hadn’t eaten in hours, and it was good to get a snack, if he could stand it. That would help ease the edge off the cacophony, he knew—if nothing else, a good drink would do wonders for his mood.

His audience did absolutely nothing for it.

He heard the greetings, the loud, loud, _my_ God _be any louder_ caterwauling from Clint, the muted chittering from Bruce. It was intolerable, at once, like someone setting off fireworks indoors, _are you fucking kidding me?_ , and he wanted to snap at them, but that would require adding to the ambient noise level, which had already subsided. He knew it was the demons stirring the pot, and he could hold his tongue, where it counted. And it counted when it was self-serving.

The smell of coffee was in the air, but there was nothing left in the pot. Clint’s accusation that Tony could make a new pot nearly drove him to an argument—something surely clever, along the lines of, _Who pays your rent? Who lets you stay?_ Instead, Tony set the pot down, walking away from it. 

He found a box of crackers. Crackers were good; crackers would settle his stomach, which had decided the party upstairs seemed like it was worth emulating. _Goddamn traitor_ , he told it, chewing so quietly he deserved an award.

The ambient noise level of the living room was intolerable, so he grabbed the box and carried it off, not bothering to announce his thievery with a sly, _This is my property_. No one questioned it, at least—small mercies of the auditory kind. Even the hallway seemed blessedly silent, once the door slid shut between the two spaces, and he made his way to his room on lighter steps, feeling a bit . . . well, _triumphant_.

He hadn’t finished the project he’d wanted to, but he had bested his demons, for one moment. That was worth something.

By the time he reached his room, one short walk and elevator ride away, any sense of triumph had evaporated. He felt tired of the lights again, and the demons were no longer playing the piano, instead exploring the cavernous space inside his unoccupied skull at will. He wanted to tell them to shoo, to leave him alone so he could think, but everywhere they went, they jangled, they dropped knives.

Mouth set in a grimace, he stepped inside his room, shivering at the temperature drop. He always kept his room very cool—he could drag blankets into bed, and the reactor projected a lot of heat underneath them, but he could not cool his body off any natural way, and he hated being stuffy at night. He kicked off his shoes and clambered into bed, stuffing the crackers onto the dresser and a pillow over his head, right as the demons struck the left side of his skull vehemently, reminding him of its unwanted existence.

A great amount of time passed in a span of four minutes, lying facedown in bed, arc reactor digging uncomfortably into his chest. _You need to get up_ , he told himself. He wasn’t even under the covers properly, and it was too early, besides, to sleep. If he slept now, he’d be up all night, which would guarantee the demons would play, but he could feel the sinister joy of monsters who had found a home for themselves and refused to be evicted. They would not be ousted easily, he knew.

So he sighed and lay a few moments longer, just a few moments, really, and, when he was quite sure his skull would fall off if he moved, slowly he shimmied back upright, and unbuttoned his shirt. His fingers skittered over the buttons with benumbed familiarity. It seemed . . . utterly meaningless, all at once, and he flopped back onto his sore side, burying his hurting head into the comforting coolness of the pillow, stuffing his arm over his head.

There he lay for a long time, the unwellness in his belly swelling, until he twisted into a smaller shape, so that he could not be easily wounded by the demons trying to make a ruin of him. _I didn’t invite you_ , he thought, eyes squeezed shut, breathing through his nose, unable to tell J.A.R.V.I.S. in words to turn down the lights. Not yet. Not this moment, and with an arm over his eyes, it was nearly as good, anyway.

The demons relished their small victories, but he always won the wars. He told himself, _I always win_ , and summoned up the will to grumble, “Lights-ten,” and J.A.R.V.I.S., blessedly simple beast that he was underneath his wit and charm, simply obliged. He thought, _Lights-five_ would be even better, barely any light at all, but he was glad for the change, and exhausted.

Exhausted.

 _From a war that is not happening_ , he thought, lying on his side, stomach churning, head hurting, lying in the darkness far too early in the afternoon to justify itself. His one consolation prize was that he had a date tonight, which meant he would not be alone into the wee hours of the morning wondering if Steve was enjoying freezing to death on S.H.I.E.L.D.’s behalf but—

God, he didn’t want to think. Twisting onto his opposite side, the left side of his head scarcely exposed as he held a pillow to it and hunkered down in blissful silence, he exhaled into the mattress and pulled the proverbial plug, half-begging his body to carry him down.

The demons called out from somewhere in the deep, longing to play for him, for hours—forever, if he’d let them—but as he swam deeper to escape them, he found something like peace underneath the true darkness, at last unhinging its terrible hold.

* * *

The first thing Tony noticed was the muted hurt in his head, how it groaned instead of screamed as he swam towards the shore, away from the deepest part of the ocean.

The next thing was the blanket draped over him, tucked against his sides. He hadn’t even made it under the covers, he realized, flexing his fingers against them. Someone had not only put a blanket over him, but made sure it didn’t go anywhere. Kicking his foot gently freed it—not trapped, either.

The thing that made him open his eyes—wary, but grateful for the ongoing darkness—was the smell of coffee, in a travel mug. Instantly drawn to it, he scooted forward, curled a hand around it, and pushed himself up just enough to sip at it. Leveraging himself upright, he gulped down the warm coffee, entertaining himself imagining a certain someone blowing on it to cool it.

 _One lucky bastard_ , he thought to himself, setting the empty mug aside and carefully shifting out of bed. He didn’t dare lie down, didn’t even want to—felt heavy, and alive, and eager to find his hero.

The penthouse level was actually a series of rooms, and he found his savior lounging in the study, book in hand, his own cup of coffee nearby, steaming in a travel mug. He had only a lamp on beside him, forgoing the more brilliant ambient lighting, and Tony thought, _God, I love you so much_ , as he ventured closer, socks quiet on the hardwood.

He didn’t offer a, _Good book?_ opener. Steve didn’t even look up, turning the page slowly, holding the book in the classic, _Just a moment_ way that Tony already knew. Tucking his arms around Steve’s shoulders, he rested his chin on Steve’s head and shut his eyes, listening to Steve turn the pages, whisper-soft, for several long seconds.

Then, quietly but deliberately, Steve shut the book and rumbled, “Hi.”

“Hi,” Tony echoed, tipping his head to rest his cheek on Steve’s head instead. “Good book?”

Steve nodded a little, reaching up to stroke against the grain of hairs on Tony’s arm. “One of my favorite things,” Steve said, his voice slow and soft, pleasant to listen to even in the worst of times, yet the demons were still quiet, unawake, trapped in the attic once more, “about this century,” he went on, still running his fingers so gently against Tony’s skin, “is the number of _books_.”

Tony said, “You know,” and paused, just to savor the sweep of Steve’s hand against his arm, to truly relish the faint but ever-present press of the wedding band on his finger, “if you ever got _tired_ of being a superhero, you could have a real career in audio books.”

“I like to read in my head,” Steve murmured. Stilling his hand on Tony’s forearm, he turned a little and Tony lifted up, let go so he could look at him, saying simply, “But I can make an exception.” He smiled, then added, “For one.”

“I could swoon,” Tony drawled, dancing away from him slowly, tugging at his sleeve to encourage him to follow. “Sorry I missed our date.”

Steve shook his head, nodding at the book and saying, “S’fine. Sometimes, you just gotta cozy up with a good book, anyway.”

“You have a _very_ weird definition of ‘cozying up,’” Tony mused, looking at him, still dressed in formal attire, standing in front of the stiffest chair in the room.

With a modest shrug, Steve murmured, “It’s comfy.” Then, looking at him seriously, he asked, “How’re you?”

Tony shrugged, held out his arms, and said, “Glowing. Probably emitting radiation, actually.” Reaching up to grip the left side of his head as it gave an errant throb, he added grumpily, “Retreating to my _man-cave_ , you want in?”

“Love to,” Steve said, terribly earnest, and Tony smiled a little despite himself, his hurting head, his thwarted plans, because—

“Honestly, _I’m_ disgusted at how romantic we are,” he murmured, lounging between Steve’s legs, sharing a box of crackers. “Who needs a fancy dinner when you can have Ritz crackers in bed?”

“Who needs it?” Steve agreed, passing him a bottle of water. “Grabbed this while I was downstairs. Need anyth—” He smiled when Tony kissed him. “Take that as a ‘no’?” he murmured.

“Boy, I _will_ marry you twice,” Tony warned, cracking open the bottle and clicking it against Steve’s. “Cheers.” He swallowed it down in one long gulp, then snuggled down and sighed exaggeratedly. “Hope you enjoy your new life as a royal pedestal. Just gonna vege for a minute.”

“Mmhm.” Steve crunched on another cracker.

“That’s so loud.”

“Sorry.” Very, very quietly, Steve nibbled on another cracker. It was still laughably loud, pressed up against his chest, but Tony didn’t complain this time, shutting his eyes and listening to his proudly beating heart, instead. It was— _loud_ was the wrong word. Steady. Pleasantly tangible.

Even the demons piped down to listen to it, a _Clair de Lune_ for monsters, and he knew he was drifting, again, knew he was shameful conversation and it was no fun to be Tony Stark’s pillow, but Steve was patient, and good, and kind, and seemed to, in his own quietly weird way, relish it. Even when Steve finished eating crackers, there was no impatience in his loose frame, no sense of _up and at ‘em_.

Steve was content to stay, even if nothing—absolutely nothing—was happening, because he found something good in the silence, something peaceful, too.

“I love you,” Tony murmured, quiet but necessary, words that were dangerous in the perfect, perilous silence.

Steve kissed the top of his head. “Love you more,” was all he said.

And Tony—he utterly, completely believed him.


End file.
